


FIELDS OF GOLD :   ‘CONFESSIONS OF A FASHIONISTA.'

by RunePhoenix6769



Series: FIELDS OF GOLD [4]
Category: CROSSHARES - Fandom, RWBY
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/F, Fashion Designer Coco, Fluff, photographer velvet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18750328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunePhoenix6769/pseuds/RunePhoenix6769
Summary: FIELDS OF GOLD SPIN OFFIt’s been 8 years since Carrie Mortimer packed a dressmaker’s mannequin, sewing machine and a rucksack into her battered truck, waved goodbye to a Golden Cowgirl and left behind the sleepy backwater town of Clearwater, sights firmly set on the bright lights of New York City.It’s been 7 years since Coco Adel made her big debut on the catwalk at New York Fashion Week. It’s been 5 since she dropped her first collection garnering her critical acclaim.8 long years of bitching fashion designers, models, the whirlwind of parties with the same conversations and people. Coco, never thought she would see the day that she would be jaded, tired and uninspired .That is until she meets a timid but talented photographer, who reminds her of her hometown and who she used to be.Sometimes it's good to remember your roots, so you can stand tall and reach for the sky.





	FIELDS OF GOLD :   ‘CONFESSIONS OF A FASHIONISTA.'

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Imagine the scene, a rooftop patio decked out with lights high up in the eaves of the New York City skyline. Sensual beats thump drowning out the police sirens on the streets below, as people decked out in haute couture mingle freely making sure to skirt the pool from which rises steam. Expensive drink in hand Coco Adel, the designer of most of the clothing worn by these waif like models, meanders through the throng, making the obligatory nods, quips, oohs and ahs at all the right places. 

These so called movers and shakers, masters of the fashion universe, the mere mortals in the streets below will recognise smiling up from glossy pages of magazines that line the newspaper stands on their daily commute, seen as some sort of Gods, whilst young girls, women and sometimes boys the world over glean over the publications with a burning hunger to be like them, to look like them, and maybe even in their wildest day dreams, to be one of these elite few.

Whatever it took to make it through the day.

Most people would give their right arm or even their first born to be on this lofty rooftop, so far removed from all that could be classed as boring and mundane, to be so much closer to the heavens, mingling with these Angels in human form. Hell, once over Coco Adel, or rather Carrie Mortimer had been amongst them, rolling in the stink of the gutter with supernovas in her eyes and driving ambition to leave it all behind.

Now the chittering of hog monkeys, bitching fashionistas and fake high pitched brittle laughter is the accompanying score to the DJ who is playing some remix of a pop song by a two bit rapper, whose golden ticket to the fast lane had been using his fists on his girlfriend and a good PR manager. 

It never ceased to amaze her that beyond the red rope so many clawed and scraped to get behind, it stank far worse than the gutter. You didn’t notice it at first, wide eyed naivety and blinded by the glamour cast by these behemoths, it was only when you pushed past the veil, past the laboriously crafted smiles and unmovable foreheads that more than likely put a plastic surgeon’s brat through college that the stench became overpowering like the pig silos back home on the Oklahoma plains.

It chipped away at you slowly, how overweight middle aged men with enough money and power that they were above the law would rub a pudgy hand down the back of a girl’s dress, young enough to be his daughter and in some cases younger, either too scared, stupid or hungry to succeed to say no. Or how yet another youth had come to the city to try their luck only to get caught up in the whirlwind of the lifestyle, eyes sunken and lifeless from lack of food or cradled in the thralls of something far worse, just to keep the weight off. 

It was corrosive and ate away at you but you were encouraged to cast your eyes aside, to think of yourself if you wanted to survive. It was their own fault if they crumbled, it meant that they weren’t tough enough to play the game, and besides, it was one less competitor to think about. 

In this pit of vipers it was survival of the fittest with a hint of lady luck, if you were fortunate enough for her to cast you a cursory glance. Raw talent wasn’t enough, it also took hard graft, smarts, hunger and a willingness to spill proverbial blood of enemies and friends alike. Something she had swiftly learned in her first year at New York Fashion School and treading the boards of the catwalk in the subsequent years that followed.

It wasn’t called a ‘cut throat’ business for no reason.

From somewhere came the sound of braying and for a moment Coco had a brief flash of her home town of Clearwater and the Auction Mart as she cast her eyes over the assorted crowd. Piggy eyed financiers with expensive shirts stretched over rotund bellies, chest hair sprouting under double chins. Skinny models in stilettos staggering like new born foals, watched with barely contained jealousy burning in their eyes by older women barely able to make an expression due to the collagen and Botox injected into their faces in a bid to hold onto the last vestiges of youth.

The cacophony of sounds reminded her of a barnyard, pigs squealing, chickens clucking, donkeys honking and it was giving her a headache.

Downing her drink, she waved the glass in the direction of a server who began to busy himself reaching for fruits and shots glasses. Coco stopped him, 

“Buddy, just do free pour, lace it!”

He nodded in understanding, pouring in the numerous liquors into a silver tumbler, ice and fruit juice. She watched as he shook it this way and that. He looked like he was about to toss it up in the air, when she gave him a miniscule shake of her head. Untwisting the cap he poured it into a deep glass, garnishing it with a straw and an umbrella. Taking it, she leaned closer slipping a 100 dollar bill into the breast pocket of his black shirt.

“What’s your name?”

“Todd.”

“Right Todd… I am going to be over there,” She pointed at a secluded spot hemmed in by fake palm trees and foliage, “- If you see me wave my glass, bring me another one of these. If you see anyone approach, go over with a tray of drinks and distract them and there will be another one of them in it for you.” 

“Wow, Thank you, Miss Adel.” 

She waved him off, 

“Don’t mention it!” Taking a sip, she added, “- Maybe next time a little more rum and a lil less fruit?”

Sliding herself off the tall seat, she was about to beat a hasty retreat when she came upon the small PA, out of breath and full of concern, brandishing a tablet in her hands, 

“Ms Adel, there you are!”

“Ciel.”

Coco began to make her way to her destination of much needed respite as Ceil followed closely behind, rambling, 

“The movie mogul still wishes to discuss a red carpet ensemble for the rising star of his new movie. And the editor of Visage called asking for a confirmation on the choice of images for the new issue. There are also some complications with the negotiations with the Diamond Conglomerate, they are refusing to budge on the initial price and are asking for first sight of designs. The financiers are also making inquiries as to how the new line is coming along.”

With a frustrated sigh, Coco stopped, all she wanted was one moment’s peace, to step off this merry go round if even for a few seconds and the constant barrage was not helping the creeping headache that was knocking at the door.

“Ciel!” 

“Yes, Ms Adel?”

“Look around, where are we?”

“A party?”

“Exactly!” She plucked the tablet from the personal assistant’s hands, tucking it under her arm, adding, not unkindly as she turned the woman round by the shoulder, “- Go have fun!”

“But, Ms Adel,” The Indian woman stuttered, “ – I simply can’t.. I .. These people… We can’t…”

And Coco understood the woman’s trepidation. As a personal assistant, Ciel was a god send, with an uncanny ability to be organised in a way that Coco simply wasn’t, much preferring to stay concentrating on her creations rather than the day to day minutiae of the business. It wasn’t that she was lax or didn’t know what was going on in House Adel, it was that she paid other people handsomely to keep on top of it. Ciel Soleil worked with a military precision when it came to her job, she could bark down a phone, wrangle unruly agents and models, haggle with the best of negotiators but when it came to enjoying herself and small talk, she was woefully lacking and surprisingly timid. 

“If you’re so hell bent on not enjoying yourself, you can help Todd with doing me the favour of keeping people away… Just for a few minutes!” Ciel went to protest and instead let out a squeak as Coco slapped her gently on the ass, “- Go make Momma proud!”

Leaving the small woman stunned, Coco continued on her journey, grateful when she rounded the corner that she seemed to be alone. Sinking into one of the numerous chaise lounge deck chairs made for two, she cast a look skyward at the deep red hue that intermingled with the blues of the night and lamented that for once she would give anything to be rid of the light pollution, for the clear skies of the open plains and the Milky Way twinkling overhead stretching as far as the eye could see. 

After 8 years in the big city she had almost forgotten what it looked like. But she hadn’t forgotten laying in the flatbed of an beaten pickup truck on blankets that carried the whiff of horses with a golden cowgirl who had taken great pains to point out the constellations and tell her the stories of their origins. 

It wasn’t as if she kept tabs on the people back home in the tiny backwater town of her birth, more than anything it was to remind herself of the person who she used to be, pencil whizzing across the page as idea after idea flowed from the river of creation, the muses blessing her with their gift of inspiration. And that is where in lay the problem, demands for a new line were being made, claiming that to rest on her laurels of her previous success would only serve to make House Adel irrelevant.

But much like the stars in the night sky hidden from the view, the muses refused to appear as new ideas refused to form and she wondered if her river of creation had run dry and she was now a fish flopping in the mud in the river bed, gills flickering as she tried to suck in much needed oxygen from a torrential downpour that would never arrive in time. 

With a tiredness creeping into her bones and the headache making itself known, Coco shifted back, stretching out her long legs on the wood and resting against the cushioned back, taking a huge gulp of her drink and typed in the pattern on the pad, finding the images the editor at Visage wanted her to approve and its companion piece. 

They were for an interview given an age ago to a journalist with an Italian last name that meant flower, that she had, however briefly, considered seducing, about her meteoric rise to fame from the catwalk to the fashion house. She had specialised in handbags and accessories, smartly making an affordable Bridge Line for those who wished to have a slight brush with chic and elegance whilst keeping the numbers of her more expensive and lavish designs to limited edition, before branching out with her own line of gowns for the rich, famous and affluent.

Reading through the words she internally scoffed at her own bullshit. As she took another huge sip of her drink, she zoomed in on the image, expert eyes roving over the colours and how the lighting wasn’t quite right when there was movement to her left. 

She was about to tell who ever it was to politely fuck off and leave her alone when a person tripped over backwards, landing half on the lounge chair and half in her lap, knocking the tablet out of her hand, clattering on the floor and spilling the drink as Coco made a pathetic attempt to save it. There came a flash of light that left the ex-model blinking her eyes as they swam with pink dust motes. 

Blinded by the sudden onslaught and with alcohol seeping into her clothing, Coco let out a curse, 

“For fucks sake!”

The person on her lap was attempting to wriggle off, with hands clumsily hitting her thighs and stomach that almost knocked the wind out of her. She heard in an accent decidedly not from New York, say apologetically, 

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry!”

She could feel someone wiping furiously at her arm and as she regained her vision her eyes alighted on a young woman on her knees beside the deck chair and a camera hanging from her neck. The intruder continued,

“Are you ok? I didn’t see you there…” She timidly held up the camera as if in explanation, the huge flash sticking up from the top no doubt the culprit of the blinding. "- I was looking for a spot to take a wide shot….”

With a grimace, Coco staved the hand that was doing a piss poor job of soaking up the sticky fruity smelling liquid that had now run down her arm and seeped into the material of her outfit. She waspishly snapped in a way that would do a rich heiress from her past rather proud, 

“Why didn’t you just use a fisheye, like a normal person?”

The young woman sat back on her haunches, head bowed inspecting the camera, long brown hair obscuring her face,

“I brought one with me, but I put it down for a second and now I can’t find it….” Coco watched as the long brown haired woman continued to tend to the camera checking the lens, her voice quivering, “- My boss is going to kill me!.....It’s the first big assignment he’s let me come on and already I’ve cocked it up..” The woman gave a sniffle, “– I just can’t seem to get anything right. He’ll have me back to coffee duty when he finds out.”

Taking pity, the fashionista reached out, 

“Hey, hey whoa there.” 

The woman looked up and it was the first time that Coco got a proper look at her. Long brown hair coupled with a fringe framed her face and even from here, she could see a furious blush still evident across her cheeks. Big brown eyes that looked to be brimming with tears looked back at her. The way she bunched at the shoulders and her eyes seemed to dart put Coco in the frame of mind of a rabbit caught in the crosshairs of indecision whether to make a break for it or remain stock still and hidden, and quite frankly she was finding it endearingly cute. The miserable woman wiped at her nose and looked full well like she was about to burst into sobs. In a bid to avoid the upset, Coco asked, 

“Who’s your boss?”

“Gustav Fischer.”

Coco let out a snort, causing the woman’s eyes to fly open even wider than they already were,

“Don’t worry about Gustav, I’ll handle him!” Reaching for the tablet off the floor, she gave it the once over, happy to find that it had survived it’s toss from a height. Opening it up, she pulled up a fresh note, “- What’s your name?”

The timid woman got to her feet, quietly murmuring something. Coco looked up at her, 

“Hon, you’re gonna have to speak up!”

Shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, the photographer uttered a little louder, 

“Velvet…. Velvet Scarlatina.”

Velvet, the name struck the ex-model as unusual, but then again weren’t half the names she came across in this industry unusual, each person wishing to be known by something memorable and impactful enough to maybe one day carry a brand, something that evoked an image. Image was everything and she would know, as her slender fingers tapped across the screen before showing it to the other woman, 

“There…. All sorted.”

“Thank you, you didn’t have to do that. Not after I spilled your drink all over you,” Velvet went to move off, “- I’ll get you another one.” 

Either the intruder was giving a performance worthy of an academy award winning actress or she genuinely had no notion of the opportunity whose lap she has quite literally landed on. And the jaded fashion designer found that maybe some earnest company was exactly what she needed.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Coco leaned forward waving her hand in the direction on the bar until she caught Todd’s eye and gave him the symbol for two. Turning her attentions back to the photographer, she patted space on the lounge beside her, “- Why don’t you join me?”

“I couldn’t possibly!” 

Coco gave her a wide, encouraging smile, 

“No, I insist.” She watched as the woman fiddled nervously at the buttons of the camera, “- If you’re worried about Gustav, don’t be. I’ll make sure that you get the shots you need and then some.” 

Never taking her gaze off her she watched as the photographer moved with a little uncertainty closer, and she appraised her in the way that all fashion designers do when given a fresh canvas. She wouldn’t say she was slight, more athletic with long legs and curves that you didn’t see on the ironing board models she dealt with on a daily basis. There was a gentle sway to her hips but her shoulders hunched over a little, almost as if she was undecided about how much space she should take up or afraid that the sky was going to come crashing down. The short brown leather jacket that came half way down her rib cage, over the top of a black vest top that clung to her frame showed off a stomach that suggested someone took care of themselves.

Velvet took the seat beside her, sitting on half on the edge with a foot on the floor and her other leg bent so she could face the model, almost very deliberate of her placement, still fiddling with her camera and Coco couldn’t help think that this woman was wholly too trusting. For all she knew Coco could be a competing photographer or working for another publication looking to get out the best images of the party first. There was an innocence and awkwardness there that Coco at this point had seen too many times to ignore. 

“How long you been in town?”

“About six months!”

Yes, that’s about the amount of time Coco guessed that this woman had been this city, having still maintained that naivety. It wouldn’t be long before it rubbed off. The City was affectionately referred to as The Big Apple as it was shiny and inviting, until you bit into it and found that it could be rotten to the core. Maybe if she was lucky she would avoid it for a while but this business tended to swallow up innocence, sucking it dry, leaving a hollow shell to be filled with harsh lessons learned. You either got tough and smartened up real quick or it chewed you up, spitting you back out and leaving you floundering in the sewers. Some people managed to claw their way back but more often than not, they left with broken dreams and a little wiser, returning from wherever it was they hailed or found somewhere else not as fast paced. 

If you struck gold, someone higher up the food chain would take you under their wing, but more often than not it didn’t come without a price. 

Todd arrived with the drinks, handing one to Coco and the other to Velvet, whose nose crinkled as she took a sip, 

“Wow, that’s strong!” 

The ex-model gave a light laugh, 

“Todd, darling, keep them coming and please keep my personal assistant company.” The server nodded his head in acknowledgement, “- Of course, Miss Ad….” 

Coco cut him off with a look, having no wish to reveal who she was just yet, much preferring the opportunity of anonymity for the first time in as long as she could remember. Taking a sip of her own, she wondered just how high her tolerance had become as to her the beverage tasted just about right. Stirring the contents of the glass with the straw, she noticed how the photographer shivered slightly in the balmy evening. Reaching behind her she fumbled until her fingers clasped round the tell-tale material of a blanket. Offering it out to the photographer, she asked, 

“Where you from? You’re defo not from America anyways.”

Graciously taking it, Velvet wrapped it around her shoulders, 

“Australia.”

So not only new to the city but fresh off the boat, no doubt all by herself, like a faun wandering into the clearing hemmed in by a tree line full of wolves, the fashion model mused. 

“You’re a long way from home.” 

The photographer wriggled back, finally relaxing a little and mimicking the model, stretching out along the wood of the lounge and leaning back, drawing Coco’s appreciative gaze up her long shapely legs, up her lean figure, over her small pert breasts and finally to her face. She thought it almost a crime when the Australian settled the blanket covering over her lower half in a bid to get warmer. 

She watched how pale pink lips shiny with lip gloss, wrapped round the straw as the photographer sucked on it, holding the glass up close as if it would somehow shield her from the predators that lingered in shadows, her eyes darting around the space secluded by the foliage.

How long would this woman last before she found that lip gloss at this type of gathering had gone out of style in the late 90’s or her leggings tucked into ankle boots was so last year? How long before she lost her uniqueness, her own sense of self giving way to demanded conformity of being impeccably presented in the newest of trends? 

Turning on her side, she regarded the woman, purring, 

“Velvet!”

Big brown eyes swung in her direction, full of trust and wonderment. So open and honest and unassuming, ripe for the taking. The allure of something unmarred was so tempting and she found that she desperately wanted to take a bite. Coco wondered if she could reach out and touch it, the essence of purity not yet tainted by the stresses and strains of the world they inhabited, and if it would disintegrate at her fingertips. 

Her hand reached out. 

But it would make her no different than the piggy financiers and movie moguls who abused their position, swallowing and consuming virtue in a way that Coco despised. Instead her hand fell to the tablet between them. 

“I was wondering if you could look at something for me and give me your professional opinion?”

Chasing away the inherent thought, she opened up the images, handing over the tablet to the photographer and settled on propping herself on one elbow whilst she kept her other hand busy wrapped round the smoothness of the glass. She concentrated on tiny micro expressions that flitted across the long haired brunette’s face. The minuscule knitting of eyebrows, the slight furrow of a forehead, how natural eyelashes fluttered and the twitching of the corners of lips and she almost laughed as she realised she was watching this woman much like she would a TV drama, having become so used to dead eyed and expressionless faces held together by layers of makeup and collagen.

Swiping back and forth, the photographer played at bottom lip with the tips of her fingers, giving a tiny twitch of her nose, before looking up and turning the tablet towards Coco, she began with a lilt to her voice, her tone so much more confident than their introduction, 

“See this here..” She pointed with her index finger, “- The lighting is too harsh for those colours…. I can see what they were trying to do… And this one here, I wouldn’t have gone with Bokeh as a background for that…” Her finger hovered over the screen, as Coco leaned in closer nodding and hanging on her every word, “- It’s a little too noisy, see how it’s taking away from the subject matter in the foreground… ” Velvet swiped again, pausing on a black and white landscape photograph depicting the ex-model, “- Now this one, I like… You can’t go wrong with a clas…”

Coco bristled as they were rudely pulled out of their private moment as the foliage beside them began to rustle and a hushed conversation could be heard, 

“Mr Bernstein.” Came a shocked gasp and a fake high pitched giggle causing Coco to cast Velvet a glance and roll her eyes, “- We can’t do that. What would your wife say?”

“My wife doesn’t care, baby. She knows how it is. We have an open relationship.”

If the woman was stupid enough to believe that then she wouldn’t last five minutes. There came the sound of lips smacking and the click of heels heralding their arrival, as the pair came into view, the man’s hands gripping the woman’s ass, his face obscured, buried somewhere in her tits as he walked her backwards. Coco growled loud enough for everyone in the private space to hear, 

“Do you fucking mind? I’m in the middle of a meeting!”

The balding older man looked up from what he was doing and greeted the fashion designer as if he had causally bumped into her at a coffee shop and not in the middle of trying to lick at tits like they were an ice cream sundae, 

“Oh, hey Coco!”

The familiarity of it and his lack of guilt boiled a rage in her chest. Scowling, she hissed, 

“It’s Miss Adel to you!” At that the model in his arms turned round, and Coco witnessed the momentary shock giving way to excitement in a matter of seconds. She lashed at the pair, “ – Bernie, your wife, Helen…. Remember her? She’s 6 months pregnant with your second kid if I recall!”

He at least had the gumption to look a little fazed at that as his hands slowly left the young woman’s ass but remained lingering at her hip. The waif like woman, who could easily be his daughter, twisted out of his grasp reaching into the tiny bag at her waist. She was about to approach when Coco caught the flash of a tiny white card coming out of the depths of the bag. She held up her hand, 

“- I am gonna stop you right there! What’s your name?”

Stalling her approach, the eager woman brightened, 

“Jessica!” She began to gush, "- I'm such a big ..."

“Here’s a free piece of advice, Jessica! When a guy tells you him and his wife are in an open relationship,” She clapped her hands for emphasis, “- It’s A Fucking Lie! Jesus Christ! Are you fresh off a cornfield or plain just dense?” The young woman blinked as if she had been slapped, and Coco continued in some desperate need to get through, “ – Cop the fuck on, Jessica, and get a fucking clue!"

Jessica looked as if she was about to burst into tears as she fled and Bernie snarled, 

"Jesus Christ, Adel! There's no need to be a total cunt!"

"Oh fuck off, Bernie" She spat, "- Go home to your wife!"

She watched, muscles working in her jaw as Bernie stormed off back in the direction of the party. With a shake of her head in a bid to dissipate the flash of rage, she turned her attentions back to Velvet to find the photographer stood up and trying to settle to camera at her neck. Adding a much softer tone to her voice, she gave the Australian a small smile, 

"Hey... Where were we?"

Instead of sitting back down, the photographer gave a doff of her head, gone was the cordial familiarity replaced with steel edge to her voice, 

"That was really mean. Did you really have to say those things to her?"

Coco's voice rose an octave indignantly, 

"What? I was just telling her how it is!"

"But calling her dense? Mocking her about being from cornfields, was that really necessary?"

The photographer moved off, and Coco called after her. 

"Velvet, where are you going?" The long haired brunette paused and Coco patted the seat next to her, "- Come on, finish your drink at least."

Velvet turned round, replying with a polite clipped tone that left no room for argument, 

"I appreciate your offer 'Ms Adel' but I have work to do.... Thank you for the drink."

Taken aback by the forth right reply and the decline of her offer, something that she was not entirely used to, she bristled with contempt, 

"Hey! Who do you think you.." 

Coco never got chance to finish her sentence as with a tight smile, the photographer left without a backwards glance, leaving Coco to stew and ponder where exactly she had gone wrong. Closing her eyes, she grimaced biting her bottom lip. Reaching for Velvet's discarded drink, she petulantly tossed the straw onto the ground and skulled the contents quickly followed by her own. Waving her hand until she got Todd's attention again, she slumped back in her seat ignoring how the wood hurt and reached for the tablet. The best way she knew how to get out of a filthy humour was either to shoot something or screw someone's brains out and being she was under the influence it looked like the latter was her only option. As Todd placed down two more drinks, she browsed through a row of names until she came across one to her liking and sending it a swiftly typed out message. 

"You free?"

Within a few seconds the tablet pinged in reply, 

"Yes."

"Be at mine within the hour, same as usual."

"oxox."

With a loud huff, Coco scrolled back through the list alighting on a number. Giving the number a flick, a British accent answered, 

"Miss Adel, how may I be of service?" 

"Walter, would you be so kind as to have a town car outside in 30 minutes?" 

"Yes, of course, Miss.... Would there be anything else you require?"

"Yes, tell Gustav, I want to see him at the studio first thing Monday morning!"

"Any message?"

"Yes," She snapped, "- Tell him, I want to discuss his fucking assistant!"

Cutting the call, she took a gulp of one of the fresh cocktails, stabbing at the tablet's screen so hard she chipped one of her perfectly manicured nails as she typed in the name 'Velvet Scarlatina'. After a few seconds the screen was awash with images that even in her slightly inebriated state she could see were stunning. The composition and lighting was flawless in just about every shot, heavily laying in street style. There was a smattering of landscapes and head shots and as Coco continued to sift through, drinking in the form and use of space and colour, she couldn't deny that the Aussie had a natural eye and was talented. 

Scrolling back through to the images for the magazine, she sent off a quick reply telling the editor that the ones Velvet had pointed out didn't meet with her approval and threw the tablet back onto the lounge. 

Maybe the photographer was right? Maybe she had been too harsh.... 

From somewhere buried deep inside, she heard a voice, with an thick Oklahoma accent chastise, 

"That's not somethin Carrie Mortimer from Clearwater would ever have done or said." 

Fuck that!

That way of thinking opened the door to doubt and second guessing leading to a crisis in confidence, and right now a crisis in confidence and introspection was something she could ill afford. Muttering to herself darkly, she got to her feet, plastering on a fake smile before she stepped round the corner and began the charade that had become her whole life, playing the role she was meant to play. 

Gangly Carrie Mortimer with her buck teeth and ill fitting clothes was dead. 

She was Coco Adel and she was giving the world a performance of a lifetime.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are enjoying this fic, feel free to show your support via comment, kudos, pm or tumblr.
> 
> Thanks.


End file.
